From the Vaults
by musubi7
Summary: Revisited fics from 2010 mostly centered around England and America, but also Russia, Prussia, Grandpa Rome, the Italy brothers. Spanning genres from general to horror to adventure, family and romance. Next chapter: Fairy tales.
1. Ash

**Disclaimer: This short is dark and not for the faint of heart. If you don't like creepy things, wait another week and I'll have part 2 of "From the Vaults" up, till then, hang in there. If you do like creepy things, I suggest pairing this fic with a nice, 2001, "Mad World" by Gary Jules.**

**Also, I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers**

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><p>Arthur?<p>

England?

Arthur.

Turn off the light, please.

I don't like the light.

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It's the new scars from the War. They make my face look frightful. I suppose I shouldn't have stepped in front of that mortar, but if I hadn't, then I would have lost three hundred or so…I suppose. I didn't used to have these scars. My face used to be soft and smooth like China's silk or India's cotton—a child's face. I had a child's face.

I was young, once.

Why are you only standing at the door? Shouldn't you come in? I've fried chicken on the stove. Do you want some, England? I knew you'd be coming. You always come when things go bad back home, for you, not for me. Chicken and lemonade? Won't you come inside? Arthur? England?

Arthur, the wind is loud and the light from the street is coming in. Please. I like the dark. The dark is my…my joy. My sleep. I must have slept once or twice a couple-a weeks ago. I can't really remember.

Don't stumble in here with your shoes on, England.

Arthur.

England.

Arthur, you'll get dirt on the carpet. Silly, don't you remember? You're the one who taught me that. Or was it Japan? It might have been Japan. In any case, you are forgiven if in fact Japan taught me to take my shoes off when I enter a building. I believe you are forgiven.

My, my, my, Arthur.

Father when did you last eat? Why, your cheeks have sunken further than my bottom line, but of course, I mean that in the nicest way. And you've stopped shaving. Why? You look awful with a beard—your ripened-peach flesh with ale-froth whiskers; your beard is the same color as your face. Why have you done that? You've never been one for facial hair.

Have you seen Matthew?

Father, you may sit anywhere in the parlor. I shall fetch your chicken and your lemonade. Or would you prefer tea? Keep talking please—I'll only be in the kitchen; I can still hear you.

There we are. Fried chicken. Yes, fried chicken for the fried soul of Europe. How are you doing, by the way, Arthur? England—how are you doing?

_Of cou_rse I'm doing fine. I'm America. I-I-I'm Alfred Jones. I'm your _son_. I'm doing fine. Wonderfully.

I can't _begin_ to tell you how much money I found. I'm still in debt up to my eyeballs, of course, who isn't these days—but I couldn't believe I hadn't found _that_coffer before! It was tucked away, far, far away, like it was playing a long game of hide-and-seek. But I won. I always do. Do you know who had it this whole time? My Jewish friend! Yes, Esther had it. (She's been living with me again since her home was swallowed by a Leviathan.) What a wonderful and nice friend she is, don't you agree? My Jewish friend. My funny Jewish friend.

I also have rich friends.

And poor ones, too, of course. They say they don't have any money, the poor ones, but if you just keep asking, just ask them one more time—they'll eventually come through. Because they love me. They know who I am, what I am, what I stand for, and they love me. They love me so much that they would forfeit their children and their homes in my name. Their very children, England. Lovely, lovely children. But so many mouths to feed. Do you know how much money it takes to feed a child from cradle to grave? Billions, England. Billions, Arthur.

Arthur— do you know what fire smells like? Like leather and like hickory. Like a million Oklahoma wildflowers lifting off from this great, great, plentiful world and leaping into the fields of heavens. You still believe in heaven, don't you, England? Or did you abolish your belief in an Eden when you turned your back on God and everything that was faithful and good in this world?

The ones who really believe…my Protestants and my Catholics, but the Catholics are, of course, the oddest of them all, and that is the way it's always been I believe. They once burned those who didn't believe in their ways. (Their wrong ways. Their cannibal ways. Their devious ways.) I have their money now. Money they would have given to the Pope and their family members in—

—Mexico. I have a wall up now, England. Like the one that separates you and Scotland. But mine isn't made of stone. It's got infrared cameras and microwave sensors in the ground that sense when people walk over the spot. And it heats up and it heats up and it heats up and if you've made it to the center of the wave, you won't cross it because your brain will melt like a crayon on a Texas sidewalk in the middle of August. They're like the sensors at drive-thrus, England.

Father, let's go to McDonald's. You used to love that place, even though you said you hated it.

Do you know what I hate, England, sweet Father who raised me in my youth? Do you know what I hate? I hate unclean things. Look around. It's dark, but I'll never stumble through here because it is clean. Everything is in its place. Organized. Beautiful in its simplicity.

Where is Detroit? Why do you ask? It's right where it should be. In its place. All together. I put the pieces back myself. Every single one of them. I put the arm of a child back in its socket. She was dead already though. Dead like the ash which she breathed in with her last breath. Choked on smoke. Not nuclear fumes. Smoke. Just smoke. Just ash.

Where are my subways? Away.

No one travels anymore, England. No one. They're all asleep, the ones in New York. The ones in Detroit. In Houston. They're asleep. Asleep perchance to dream. To sleep, perchance to dream. That was one of yours, wasn't it, England?

My father. My caretaker. Why do you shy from me? You can't see my face can you? The scars, I know the scars are revolting. They disgust me too sometimes.

England?

Arthur?

England, where have you gone? Why do you stumble through the house? Everything is where it should be. It's in order. You should never trip. _I_ never trip. Can you see me limp? Can you see my limp? No, no you can't because I never hit anything when I walk down here. I am clean and coordinated and cool and collected and nothing is impossible for me because I am America and I will prevail.

_I am America and I will prevail_.

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There you are, silly England.

Do you know what fire smells like? I've already asked, haven't I? I think Germany knows what it smells like. I think Russia and Ukraine and Belarus know too. Prussia might. Prussia _would _know, but he was a dirty half-breed and he finally buckled under the pressure of the ash and the dust and all the filthy, filthy dirt.

I have a paper lantern here in this room, so you can turn the light on. Look at the wall, what a lovely color I've painted it, yes England? Yes, I have painted it a lovely nice color. A shade of red. The color of sunsets. I like sunsets. I like endings. Don't you England? Dear, sweet England, don't you?

And this wall? It's covered with the faces of my presidents—Washington and Franklin. Lots of Franklins. He wasn't a president though, but don't you enjoy this color? I love it so. I couldn't get it just right so I had to put four layers down. Four layers of Franklin and Hamilton and Jefferson and Washington. And Grant. A few Grants. It's hard to find those nowadays, the Grants. Treasures. You should hold onto them if you find one. And what do I have here? An American mark. A mark that guarantees water when the well fills up again.

Have you ever seen someone, England, without water for days? They wrinkle up like a tomato. I'm sorry—tom_a_to—in the sun. They just shrink and wither up like a Shrinky-Dink, but they're not nearly as fun to play with or as fun to watch. I haven't had anything to drink in a few days. Not new water, anyway. I'm pretty sure I've completely forgotten what fresh water tastes like, but we've plenty reusable water. See, you put a packet in and swirl it up and swirl it up and swirl it up until the dirt goes away and it's clean. So clean and see through and no one gets sick from this. No one ever gets sick from this. Not a single person. If you hear anything else, it's a goddamn dirty lie, probably set up by Russia because he wants to win this round. Well, he can't, England. Ivan can't, Arthur because everyone is happy. I'm happy. I'm fine. I'm fine, England. Arthur, aren't you fine too?

No one ever gets sick from the water.

Where is Matthew?

It must have only been three weeks ago that I last saw him. We were in Maine. Looking for Christmas trees. I wanted a Christmas tree…was certain that I'd find one and I'd find one with him because Christmas trees need to be found with family members. There is no exception to that rule. Have you seen my Canada?

We put a wall up there too. The one with microwaves. You could roast a steak with those microwaves from about three miles away, but then you might lose your arm reaching for it. My arm? No. My arm isn't broken, England. Arthur, why would my arm be broken?

I shan't eat. I won't eat until I see that you've eaten everything on your plate, Arthur. Don't you see how much bigger your piece is than mine? Don't you see how much of a generous host I'm being by giving you this piece? I won't eat until you eat do you want me to starve? Eat for the love of all things good which you stopped believing in and punished those who did believe.

An edict from the Prime Minister, the man who had dethroned the Throned, a man—just a man—who promised food and security, for man will listen to anyone when he is hungry and when he is afraid. My God did not take away my God. My God came from on high, my beloved Jesus Christ has returned and there he sits in those hallowed, virgin halls, and from his gavel do words from the most holy of holies fly. He speaks daily to us, and we are so lucky to have him and lead us through these too-bright days. He guides me, England. Father. Arthur. England, he guides me. He holds my hand and walks me through the fire, like you used to. Come home, you used to say. Come home and I'll make you a spot of tea and we'll drink to the health of the King and you'll tell me stories about the Knights until I fall asleep, so sound, so young, so clean on your shoulders.

Where is Matthew? Where is my cousin? Where is my beloved cousin with whom I once shared a border? Where is my cousin? Do you know where he is, England? Father. You wouldn't keep something like this from me, yes? You would tell me if you knew where Matthew was. You'd tell me. You'd tell me.

Do you hear that? That sound? It sounds like a whistle. It shrieks. It shreds through the air, through my dark and pristine night. What is that sound, Arthur? England, what is that sound? Where do these sounds come from? I hear them all the time. All through the brave night and through the day, I hear these noises. I hear the sounds. My God cannot take them away.

(He plagues me with these sounds so I may repent and learn and return to my God, but I have England, I have. I have repented and my bones ache and my soul cries out for rest. Can you give me what He cannot?)

Do you know what fire smells like?

It smells like a house of roaches being cleared.

It smells like money.

Money and passion and sex and filth and everything that is bad and awful in this world because if they're bad, then it's ok if the fire smells funny, if the smoke has a strange hickory and leather scent and there is a sound to it and I swear it's not the hissing of damp wood, but sometimes I can't be certain. It is fine. I am fine.

I am fine.

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><p><strong>Musubi's Rice Corner<strong>

Well, hello fanfiction and hello Hetalia fandom! It's been about two years since I've done any kind of Hetalia related activity (you can read all about my happenings in my profile), and I decided to come back to the fandom with a bang. What I'm doing in my series of "From the Vaults" is looking back at my old fics from livejournal, editing and reuploading them. This is to get me back in the swing of things, and to familiarize myself with my interpretations of the character, and to bring back my style a bit.

Of the entries I have for "From the Vaults," this is by far the darkest and heaviest to get through, so fret not. And hopefully there will be at least five more entries. Maybe I can find some really early fics to edit and upload and squeeze this series out to ten.

_Some story notes in case you're at all curious~_

I originally wrote "Ash" in 2010 after my English class had read and watched "A Streetcar Named Desire." I was inspired by the character Blanche DuBois and her psychosis and (without spoiling too much of a forty-year-old film), her descent into utter madness. I adored Vivvien Leigh as Blanche (and Marlon Brando's "Stelllllllllllla" scene is so...unintentionally funny due to all of the parodies surrounding it) and wanted to write a soliloquy of someone slipping further into madness. I changed the pace of the original and slowed it way down, which helps with the tone of the story, I think.

My headcanon is that Nations are born, not made. And due to this (really long and sort of convoluted family tree I had), Matthew is Alfred's cousin. They still look almost identical, but they are cousins. And yay, paternal!England, son!America.

What happens in the world that drives Alfred/America to such a state of hysterics? I'm going to throw out some key terms and you all can come up with your own conclusions: world wide depression, attacks on Detroit, Huston, New York, wide spread water contamination, disease, international conflict, Jews, desperate for a savior in the worst of times, misplaced faith, eugenics.


	2. Fairytale 1

Once upon a time, there was a young man who lived on an island with his older siblings. The eldest two, a girl and boy with a similar shock of red hair, were the cruelest, while the first youngest was quite tolerable and at times kind, even. The young man grew weary of the eldest two, and he sailed to a new land— a new place to call _his_. While his heart always belonged to the sea, the young man could not help but kiss the Virginia beaches upon arrival.

He lived alone and the other settlers seemed to like him enough. To eat, they said, he had to work. The young man was no stranger to Labor, but they'd been out of touch for quite some time. Soon, the blisters and open sores turned into calluses. He would go with the other men on hunting excursions and conversed pleasantly with them. He worked the fields.

It was a particularly hot and uncharacteristically dry July afternoon when the young man heard a baby mewing int he distance. Abandoning his post (though it seemed no one heard the sound anyway), he sought the source, cursing phantom parents for leaving their child in the wilderness. It took some time to identify, but in the thick of Farley ferns, there was, not just a baby, but an _infant _wrapped in animal furs. His small face was red from screaming; his body scarlet from the heat.

The young man gathered the babe to his breast and rocked him. Despite his inability to find a pitch, he sang a familiar church hymnal to calm the child as he looked for fresh, cool water. When given water and sung to, it didn't take long for the infant's fluttering heart to slow, nor for the child to shut his eyes in slumber.

Once upon a time, there was a young man—but he was much more than that; he was an embodied Nation with all the pomp and circumstance that followed such titles, though the humans he represented knew nothing of his existence. His heart beat with the rhythm of the power of the Empire. His blood ran thick with the will of his people. His name was Arthur and so long as there was one person alive who called themself English, he would draw a new breath.

In the New World, he found a child Nation: small for now, but there was such potential in the babe's July blue eyes. With the guiding, paternal hand of the British Empire, the boy would grow into a fine colony. Arthur named the child Nation—

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><p><em>"Alfred!" the child Nation proclaimed. Appearing no older than five years of age, Alfred laughed, freckled cheeks pinching in dimples. <em>

_"And right you are, lad," England said, ruffling Alfred's wheat-colored hair. Something moved inside England and it warmed his heart. He couldn't remember the last time a Nation made him feel this way, if, in fact, a Nation had _ever _made him feel this way. He smiled. Alfred bounced about and demanded his charge tell another story._

_"Just one more," Alfred pleaded. "Tell me about the knights again!" The young boy stuck out his lower lip and his eyes shone in the lamplight. Try as he might, England could not stop the laugh from escaping. The lad had had a full day at sea (only a few knots from shore—just enough to feel the wind in their hair). England wondered only a-quarter begrudgingly, if he would ever get the child Nation to sleep._

_"You've a long day before you," England re-tucked the boy in and he followed suit by settling into the blankets. "My impertinent little Colony, you need your rest." Before standing to leave, England ruffled his hair again, making the boy's face light up again. When he was in the doorway, Alfred piped:_

_"Will you be here in the morning to cook porridge and eggs?"_

_If he were one of the lamps, England's light would have dimmed. "No, Alfred. I've duties to attend in London. I must return early before you rise."_

_"When will you be back?" Alfred's voice was softer now. He brought the blanket close to his face, hiding his freckled nose._

_"As soon as I'm able. I will return for you, Alfred. As I always have, and always will. Now, beastie, get to sleep."_

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><p><em>He stands taller than England now.<em>

_"I want you out of my land."_

_England does not stop writing. His eyes are trained on the page before him._

_"_Your _land?" he scoffs, "You are still a direct subject of the British crown and what you declare is treason."_

_"I have no representation in your government. How can I commit treason against a government who does not recognize my existence beyond a penny?"_

_He is yelling by the last word, the vein in his neck straining._

_"You are virtually represented with the same rights and liberties as every other man under the British crown!"_

_"It's not good enough!"_

_There's a crack as England's open palm strikes his cheek._

_"Impertinent. Irresponsible. Ungrateful little brat—that's what you are. You don't even know what you're asking. You don't know the first thing about being a Nation. I've done my absolute best—well, it's certainly not my best work, considering the circumstances—to shield you from the world's ills. What would you do as a Nation? How will you protect yourself? Support yourself? You're just a _child_, Alfred."_

_He doesn't speak for some time. He only breathes. _

_"…Every last redcoat, I want gone. If I have to push you into the Atlantic myself, so help me God, I will remove you from my lands, Arthur."_

_Another crack._

_"Petulant child, you are to address me as the Empire of—"_

_"I will address you how I like, Arthur Kirkland. I am not a child this"—he makes a motion between the two of them—"is war." _

_He turns and slams the door behind him, leaving cracks in the wood and fractures in the windowpane._

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><p>—who would eventually take the name <em>The United States of America.<em>

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><p><strong>.<strong>

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**Musubi's Fried Rice Corner**

This takes place in the same universe as "A Scotchman in Jamestown." And for those of you who are curious, Alfred's middle name is Farley, for the plants England found him in.

That's all this time around :)


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